The world is a cruel place. The vodka-swilling fools of the USSR, driven mad by the intense heat (not to mention the discrediting of their Leninist worldview), are driven to putting their babies in freezers and drowning themselves in the river, oil pumps from a broken pipe into the Gulf of Mexico like some great underwater cock jizzing jet-black semen all over the face of Mother Nature, while in Pakistan the floods are so bad that God seems to just be taking the piss. I’m normally a man who buries his head in the sand about news events (for five long days a few weeks ago I became increasingly frustrated, and then just concerned, when my attempts to get Raoul Moat involved in a charity auction went unanswered) but the dire state of various countries I don’t really care about came crashing into my life when I accidentally caught the start of the lunchtime news after a thoroughly enjoyable episode of Cash in The Attic. Once the tears of laughter had subsided, I was horrified. A normal man, confronted with the scale of the suffering, usually shrugs and says “what can I do – I am only one man impotently staring at the acts of a vengeful God.” But if one thing should have become clear to you by now, I am not a normal man.I have experienced fame and power enough to rival any deity, so with this megalomaniacal thought seizing my brain (and two litres of Grand Marnier rocketing through my veins) I packed two family-sized suitcases with fresh cream cakes and set off for Pakistan to deliver aid to the suffering.
Arriving in Islamabad was something of a culture shock, but I soon stopped punching the locals and picked up my suitcases full of provisions, hailing a rickshaw and telling the driver to pedal me post-haste to “the floods.” He didn’t seem to understand but after I agreed to give him a dollar for every minute he stayed by my side, he pedalled off into the thronging traffic.
Days went by. When we eventually hit the flood plain I gave the driver (whose name I will never be able to pronounce – it seemed to contain an inordinate amount of Q’s) a festering apple turnover and told him to wait for me while I single-handedly rescued his people. I dived into the water, but all I could do to stay afloat was cling to my suitcases – their contents no longer fit for human consumption – and soon the waters swept me away. I didn’t see anybody for days, living only on dirty water and a few cream meringues that by now resembled the face of death himself.
It was just as I was about to give up all hope when I heard the helicopter. I was weak with relief and delight. They threw a rope down and soon I was high in the air above the hellish waters, and as they hoisted me into the helicopter I was met by a broad, reassuring American smile. Seeing me, he lowered his aviators and I was thrilled to see before me the gorgeous face of my BEST FRIEND Wes Craven. It turned out this was his helicopter and he had been delivering food and DVDs of ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’ to the survivors. He looked at me like he recognised me but then seemed to dismiss the notion as I slipped into a coma. When I awoke, Wes had left me in a hospital in Lahore where I contracted a particularly vicious case of dysentery and spent a sleepless couple of days loudly voiding my bowels.
My message is clear: the world is a cruel and unforgiving place filled with suffering and despair – but the love of good friends like Wes Craven make it somehow worth carrying on.
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